The Horn of Gondor
by Cadiliniel
Summary: The Horn of Gondor is heard in Minas Tirith and has a great effect on both Denethor and Faramir.


**the horn of gondor**

by Cadiliniel

**Author's Notes: **_I like to think that Denethor did show affection to his younger son at times, however implausible it may seem to some. I think that the news of Boromir's death could have been the one thing to break Denethor's icy exterior, even if it was for one brief moment, in the middle of the night, with no one else there to see._

A clear, but quiet, two noted horn could be heard dancing along with the wind in Minas Tirith. Whispers rose amongst her citizens. Many that day saw the lonely black figure stood at the end of the Citadel looking out from the city, his hands gripping the stone wall that stopped him from falling.

Faramir stood at the periphery of his camp of men. His arms were crossed and his foot tapped impatiently at the ground. He could hear the nervous chatter of his soldiers as they waited for the scouts to return. They had all heard it too. The sound still rung in Faramir's ears. All his life he had dreaded hearing it. Only once had he heard it before and it had been bad enough then, but at least he knew where his brother was. Now he had no idea. He hated not being able to do anything. His brother would never have blown the horn had he not needed help. Countless time his brother had been there for him, most recently but a month before his departure for Rivendell, at the great battle of Osgiliath. Now when it was Boromir's hour of need, he could do nothing. Faramir kicked at the ground.

A cold wind blew over the Anduin. Her waters made small splashing noises along her bank while two men stood at her side watching a boat fast approaching. One man stumbled through the water and grabbed the side of the boat. He froze. Trembling hands reached into the boat and pulled out two halves of a hewn horn. He turned back to his companion on the shore, holding out the pieces. "By the Valar," he exclaimed, unable to speak further. The man on the shore stood stunned, understanding what was happening. Before he could join his companion in the river, the boat had already begun to drift down the river away from them.

The sound of water had always been of comfort to Faramir. Perhaps he had inherited that from his mother; he would never know. He had moved towards the bank of the Anduin so that he might be able to escape the chatter of his men. He knew of what they spoke and he did not want to listen. The chatter of his own mind was already too much for his heart to take. He sat with his head resting upon his knees, trying to stop himself from thinking the unthinkable. But he slowly raised his head as he heard something disturbing the flow of the water. As a trained soldier his ears were sensitive to such changes. He stood and walked to the edge of the water, looking up the river. His eyes widened as he saw a seemingly empty boat approaching. He felt that something was amiss. He walked a few steps into the water and saw the boat pass by. His head followed the boat as it passed him, his eyes fixed upon its content. As the boat became smaller and smaller Faramir broke his gaze and turned away from the river. A tear trickled down his cheek leaving a mark like its own little river. He blinked as he heard the approaching steps of a soldier. "Captain, the scouts have returned!"

The men of the camp were silent as Faramir entered the tent where the scouts waited anxiously. They all sat in silence as the broken horn lay on the table between them. After a while Faramir cleared his throat and asked in a shaking voice, "What did you see?" The scouts looked at each other before one began to speak.

"We were upon the banks of the Anduin and…" The scout stumbled on his words. "We saw a boat approaching, an Elvish boat, we thought it was…it was empty. I went into the water, to stop the boat…and…Lord Boromir…he was…"

"In the boat." Faramir finished the sentence for the shocked soldier. "Dead." One of the scouts covered his eyes. "You may go. Thank you." Faramir spoke quietly, with restraint. They left.

Faramir stared at the broken horn as though entranced. Shaking he took the pieces into his hands and held them for moments, tears beginning to flow freely down his face. He knew guards were outside the tents and he could hear the soldiers begin to speak again, worried now. But he no longed cared. He laid his head upon the table and wept outright, without control.

"You must be gentle when you tell him; you know how he can be." Faramir had sent one of his most trusted aides with the horn back to Minas Tirith. He did not wish to face his father with such news. He could not, though he should. His men knew that he should go, yet still he could not. He heard their whispers of his father, and they hurt. He did not want to hear his father's name dragged through the mud by his own men. Perhaps he would go, perhaps not. He should not let his father grieve alone.

A guard entered the Hall of the Steward and slowly approached the man who sat still in his black chair. "My Lord?" There was no response. "My Lord?"

"What is it?" The response was slow, quiet and full of dread. Denethor lifted his head and looked at the guard.

"One of Captain Faramir's men is here, my lord. He…brings news."

"Then send him in."

Denethor stood in a panic as the soldier approached. "What have you found?" The soldier bowed and struggled with his words.

"A boat passed down the Anduin," he started, his words clearly rehearsed. "A boat that carried the body of Lord Boromir." All was silent. The soldier dare not look upon his Lord and could perceive no reaction from him. "The boat…nor the body…could be retrieved." The soldier took from under his cloak the broken pieces of the Horn of Gondor. "All we could retrieve was this." After a moment Denethor snatched the pieces from the soldier.

"Where is Faramir?" The soldier had dreaded such a question.

"He thought he should stay with the men, my Lord. To keep everything in order."

"He cannot grieve with his own father. How grief is doubled when it is not shared! Alas, Boromir!" Denethor shook his head, seemingly chastening himself for such an outburst in front of the soldier. "Be gone." The voice was cold yet shaking. The soldier hesitated before turning to leave.

The Lord of Gondor stood still for some minutes, before he fell to the floor, as a fallen statue. A servant came into the room and approached Denethor with caution. Whispers had begun again in the City. "My Lord?" When Denethor did not answer with anything but further tears the servant reached out a nervous hand to his shoulder, only to have it batted away by a distraught Lord.

"Leave me in peace! If you must, inform the City."

"Inform the City of what, my Lord?" The servant asked, though the tears began in his own eyes showed the truth that he already guessed at.

"Inform her that her beloved Captain is dead." The servant gasped in spited of himself.

"Yes…yes, my Lord." The servant ran, calling for aid in informing Minas Tirith of the death.

He could hear the faint, distant cries of women, and he knew that they had been told. He sniffed. He had suspected the fate of his son since hearing the horn, but now, now there was certainty, and that certainty was deathly in itself. The broken man stood once more. He stumbled through the great hall to his private chamber. The great door slammed behind him and the lock clicked shut.

Night had fallen in the City of Stone and the servants had seen nothing of Lord Denethor. A kitchen maid came to his door, wiping her eyes before she knocked. She need not have begun to open her mouth to speak, for she received the curt reply. "I do not wish to have any food this evening!" The girl quickly left, knowing how Lord Denethor could be in his fouler moods, at least this night he had reason for being so. His son was dead and all of his people knew it. The city was grieving as was her Lord. It was to be expected.

Hours passed and the City slept. A lone figure walked out onto the Citadel, ignoring the bowing guards. He walked as one who is blind, but without care. He reached the end of the citadel and looked out at his City. Few lights were to be seen on the streets, but it seemed that even they were dimmed. Denethor sank to his knees. He rested his head against the cold stone. All was cold now. A light breeze ran through the air as Denethor sighed deeply. He heard footsteps approach behind him. Did these men understand nothing? "I have asked to be alone, guard!"

"Father?" Denethor turned his head abruptly at the sound of the familiar, gentle voice. He saw his son stood in front of him. He blinked his weary eyes against the darkness. Denethor's turned his face away, though still belaying the turmoil behind his eyes. He brought his hands to his face, but could not hide his weeping from his son. Faramir stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. After a moment he knelt beside his father and laid a hand upon his arm. "We won't see him again. Father…" Faramir's own tears had begun to fall. "Boromir..." Denethor turned and looked at his son. Without warning he took hold of his youngest, weeping into his raven hair. Faramir released a sudden sigh of surprise, but he grasped at his father, his greying hair still soft to the touch. Denethor had lost one son, he held on to his other as tight as he could, not willing to let go.

The End


End file.
